


Ventus

by autumnstwilight (sewohayami)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bittersweet, Character Study, Gen, One Shot, Post-Canon, vague hints of ignoct
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16045628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewohayami/pseuds/autumnstwilight
Summary: Thirty years have passed since the Tidemother awoke and Altissia was destroyed. The city has rebuilt itself, and bustles with residents and tourists alike. On the outskirts where the sea breeze blows is a small restaurant, and a man with a past.





	Ventus

The city of Altissia is smaller and simpler than it was before, though still beautiful. Pale stone walls stand there, the newer ones less ornately carved but no less dignified than the handful of old buildings that remain. The aqueducts have been entirely rebuilt, and once again the city is traversable entirely by gondola, should one wish to do so.

The waters shimmer bright and deceptively calm, with no trace of the Tidemother’s wrath. And yet the eyes are drawn to and linger on the abyss where the altar once stood, the vivid blue beyond imagination, a hyperreality. Perhaps it is the wind that sweeps across the open space, that makes people shiver and hurry on. Or perhaps it is the secret call of those long since swept beneath the waves, enduring in their silence.

But no matter. The city is lively and bustling, and it is only around the edges that the winds begin to whisper and the ocean seems a little too deep for comfort. Away from the crowds, too, one can find a small establishment frequented by locals, a thriving business that nevertheless somehow conceals its existence from the mobs of tourists. They say the chef knows his regulars by the sound of their footfalls alone. There is a floorboard by the door that creaks when stepped on, and each time, he turns his head, slightly tilted to judge the echoes, and stands as if regarding his guest with pale eyes.

Ask those who frequent this location, and they will share tales of when they first realized the man preparing their meals couldn’t see. For many, it was months. Some still forget, particularly when full of fine wine, and point their fingers while making a request. Then the chef asks, in a tone calm but with no reservation, that they clarify verbally.

A row of knives hangs from the cupboards above the bar, honed to perfection and organized by purpose. Every tool, vessel, utensil and spice behind the bar has its place, and the counter-top is marked with faint circles. On a shelf sits a voice-activated electronic device, a black cube of Insomnian technology that looks slightly out of place among the wood and sandstone. When he snaps his fingers, it lights up, and dutifully records the ingredients of whatever new recipe he dictates into it, or reminds him of a previous one. Other times, he asks that it tune into the latest news broadcast, read aloud from a novel, or play a melody from an Altissian opera.

On fine days, when the sunlight stains the counter the color of honey, and the kitchen is full of the scent of spices, he can sometimes be heard singing along. His voice is untrained, but rich in tone and surprisingly on-key even in the difficult passages. Few now speak fluently the tongue in which the old works are written, but for those who take an interest, he will offer a slight smile and his own translation.

_ God sleeps, and his children light a fire that can never be extinguished… _

On the back wall, beyond the rack of knives, and next to a cabinet of wine glasses, hang a pair of daggers. The blades are as immaculate as the cooking knives, with a deadly edge, but the leather grips show hints of wear. There can be no doubt that the steel remembers blood. Rumors in the city say that this humble chef was once an assassin, even that he worked in the service of the Lucii, a name now only spoken in whispers. When asked he will merely say that he fought in a war, as did so many others his age. Even those who were born after the Dawn know of the Long Night, and few have the tactlessness to pry further.

Though it might seem that the chef never rests, the restaurant is invariably closed once a year. On the eve of Dawnsday, the windows are shuttered and the door is locked. Yet sounds can be heard from the inside, the preparation of a meal and the clinking of a glass, along with the murmur of words that none yet have been sharp enough to catch.

He emerges in the early hours of the next morning, and can be found on the docks, a glass in one hand and the remnants of a bottle of wine in the other. There he sits, in that place where the wind whispers the memory of the deep, and of all that was taken away here. Though he seems content in solitude, when approached he may smile and offer to pour a glass for his unexpected guest. By the water, the air is chill and the breeze is sharp, but wine warms the body and loosens the tongue. The stars are crystal, and when the horizon begins to glow, his eyes speak of a glimmer of forgotten magic.

Ask then and he will tell, the tale of the King who brought back the light.

**Author's Note:**

> One of those ideas that just seized me until I sat down and wrote it in one go. I've been meaning to write a counterpoint to "abyssus invocat" in which Ignis lives happily rather than spiraling downward post-game (god help me I even have ANOTHER one in the works where he goes downhill at first but eventually finds his peace. I... can't stop writing about this man).
> 
> Anyway there's a line toward the end of the game where someone suggests Ignis should start a restaurant and he seems to consider the idea. So this is that.
> 
> There is a lovely male cover of Somnus here <https://youtu.be/FmSn5nrXpvQ>. Someone on the kinkmeme first mentioned the idea of Ignis singing it and I'm... very much here for that.


End file.
